 | The Tercentenary of Corydon |  |
ACT III.
Corydon's Tomb. A Wood.Enter Bavius, Mævius, Fannius, Furius, and the Corydon Committee.
Bavius.
“Who hates not Bavius, loves a special train,”
So sang the Muse and lofty was the strain.
Yet, as we came, methought Apollo swore,
“A special train shall Bavius seek no more.”
17
Where were ye Nine, for whom my tuneful strings
Rise smooth and lightly as a goose's wings,
Where were ye Nine, when your melodious swain
Sank in the mud-sloughs of a Stratford lane?
The Committee.
Where's the sad shepherd loves a doleful ditty,
Let him bespeak the Corydon Committee.
We ne'er by Helicon were caught asleep,
Nor with the Muses any reckoning keep.
Yet o'er one Corydon we've had more strife
In half-a-year, than others in a life.
For six long months whoe'er desired to sail
Proud in stray feathers from this peacock's tail,
Came from his shop, and, careless of his pelf,
Cried, “Great is Corydon,” which means himself.
We've heard what Bavius knew, what Mævius thought,
Divided, subdivided, squabbled, fought;
To-day we swear, and all the world shall know it,
“This Corydon of Stratford was a poet.”
Fannius.
Well, where's the tomb? for Murray says you pass
By six tall hay-stacks and a tethered ass,
Follow an endless lane, turn up and down,
Fetch a good compass about Stratford town,
So back into the road, and thence not far
You'll find a beechen wood, and there you are.
Yet there's no tomb.
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Well, Fannius, where's the hurry?
This is a charming prospect—
Fannius.
So says Murray.
Well, on the moss that binds this crumbling pile
Let our Committee sit and rest awhile.
[Fannius and the Committee sit down on the tomb.
But Phœbus!—
[Enter Tityrus.
Master Beadle, can you say
If Corydon has built his tomb this way?
Tityrus.
The butcher's knave, that travelled far and wide
For his lost cleaver, found it by his side.
Mævius.
Muse! let the rose with young potatoes bloom,
If riddles grow in Stratford.
Tityrus.
Here's the tomb.
Mævius.
What, this the tomb! this palace of young efts,
Storehouse of rubbish, full of chinks and clefts!
Say, do you think, most venerable crow,
I was born yesterday?
Tityrus,
regarding him.
I should say “No!”
Mævius.
Well, then, if here's the tomb, the tomb shall give
To Mævius his land's prerogative.
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O'er buried Corydon to carve his name?
[Cuts his name on the tomb.
Tityrus.
Sirs, when the Mayor and Corporation sat,
They gave to Tityrus a beadle's hat;
A hat they gave, but lest the boys should laugh,
They added to the gift a beadle's staff.
[Tityrus beats Mævius.
Furius.
Peace, peace, good Tityrus! you have nought to fear,
We've come to honour Corydon.
[Enter stray Committee Man, and exit Tityrus.
Who's here?
Committee Man.
Pork pies, and pasties, chickens, and champagne,
Cake, sweetmeats, all are stolen from the train.
One salad's left, 'tis true, of broken glass
Well mashed with knives and forks.
The Committee,
beating their breasts.
Alas! Alas!
Bavius.
I thank thee, Phœbus! who dost still pursue
Thy poet's noontide with celestial dew.
Whom the Parnassian Muses feed on verse,
No butcher's bill shall vex his sacred purse.
The Committee.
Ah, happy Bavius, a Parnassian curry!
20
Well, well! we've done the tomb, and, “now” says Murray,
“From this sweet spot the visitor may see
The poet's cottage and his mulberry tree.”
Set up the telescope, my Furius, high on
His stand, the poet's cottage is a lion.
[Furius and Fannius arrange the telescope, and enter “Our Own Correspondent.”
Bavius
to O. O. C.
Sir, stand to Phœbus, Phœbus asks your name.
O. O. C.
Then Phœbus may go hang,—the “Acta” claim
Me, “Our Own Correspondent,” and, in short,
Have sent me here to Stratford to report.
[Begins to take notes.
Bavius.
O nameless beetle! O mysterious man!
Mævius.
My Bavius, be as civil as you can,
Lest you should find to-morrow's “Acta” tell
Our correspondent can call names as well.
Furius
to Fannius.
More to the left?
Fannius.
Right, Murray says. There stop
Between the steeple and the butcher's shop.
It is the hour.—Pale Faith, and bright-eyed Hope,
Advance, twin muses of the telescope!
21
The poet's residence is now on view.
[Looks through the glass.
Is it a dream? For ineffectual Death
Bows his pale head, the Ages hold their breath;
Serenely victor over crouching Time
The poet rises, pastoral, sublime.
Stay, poet, stay! this pale blue light diffuse,
I see—
[Fannius runs away from the telescope.
The Committee.
Ha! What?
Fannius,
faintly.
Two butchers in the blues.
O. O. C.,
laughing.
Ha! ha!
By going right you have indeed gone wrong.
But turn the focus to the left, ere long
A pale blue Corydon shall rise again,
Mending his nibs before the window-pane.
Fannius.
A plague on you and Murray! 'Twas the sun.
Bavius.
What, Phœbus? Phœbus half his course has run
Through the tired heavens, and yet the task's undone.
Say, Phœbus, say on whom the Muse bestowed
The ode to Corydon.
The Committee.
The ode! the ode!
22
By early dawn I heard Apollo swear,
“None but my Bavius fill the Laureate's chair.”
Mævius.
This ode was in my dreams addressed to me,
In the hand-writing of Calliope.
[Shows an envelope.
Furius.
The hand is mine.
Fannius.
Can any bard supply
More stanzas than can Fannius?
[Enter Martinus Tuppperus.
Martinus Tupperus.
That can I.
For once, Committee, in an idle freak
I wrote three hundred sonnets in a week.
The Committee.
All hail, Martinus! though indeed your name
Is not on the Committee.
Martinus Tupperus.
More's the shame.
Bavius, I swear the muse has not bestowed
Upon your brain the laurel and the ode.
The Committee.
A match! a match! Quick, give the poets place!
Advance, good shepherds. Phœbus send you grace,
Your own Committee shall award the crown.
Come, tuneful swains! but first your stakes set down.
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An unjust stepmother at home have I.
The Committee.
Come, none of that! some stake you can't deny.
Bavius.
This flask of mountain dew Apollo gave,
And owned me victor in the tuneful stave.
If this celestial prize Martinus gain,
And Bavius yield, 'twill give Apollo pain.
Martinus Tupperus.
These “Proverbs” see, just taken from the shelf,
Decked with a bust to represent myself.
When you behold the book, you'll all agree
The flask's outstaked by my “Philosophy.”
The Committee.
Nay, rather, since we've lost our meal, the winner
Supply the ode, his rival stand the dinner.
Bavius.
Bon Gaultier, Blackwood, Horace, and a score
Approve my fame, and swell the Muses' store;
And Phœbus with Melpomene agrees,
My anapæsts can hop like nimble fleas.
Martinus Tupperus.
Muse have I none—Apollo I refuse,
A heathen he,—the Public is my muse.
And Hatchard, Piccadilly, best can tell
This coy Camena loves Martinus well.
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Enough of testimonials,—now rehearse,
Melodious shepherds, from your pastoral verse.
Martinus Tupperus.
No metres vex my verse. I wander free,
Of my proverbial line sole patentee.
[Sings.
Greater is Mangnall than Corydon, for he talketh of Railways and Substance.
Greater than Mangnall, Martinus, for he blendeth Instruction with Proverbs.
Better like accumulated limpets to stick upon the rock of Fact,
Than in a three-volumed novel to drift upon a flowery Ocean,
And to perish in the iron arms of the Sphynx and Charybdis of Fiction.
Books are portmanteaus of Wisdom, when they are packed with Information.
But, my son, enter not the doors of the unprofitable play-house,
Even though Fashion entice thee, saying, “Corydon is piping on the stage.”
Though thy weakness yearn unto Corydon, Political Economy says, “No,
Greater is Mangnall than Corydon, and greater Martinus than Mangnall:
Whoso thirsteth after Wisdom let him drink of the pages of Martinus.”
Greater than Mangnall, Martinus, for he blendeth Instruction with Proverbs.
Better like accumulated limpets to stick upon the rock of Fact,
Than in a three-volumed novel to drift upon a flowery Ocean,
And to perish in the iron arms of the Sphynx and Charybdis of Fiction.
Books are portmanteaus of Wisdom, when they are packed with Information.
But, my son, enter not the doors of the unprofitable play-house,
Even though Fashion entice thee, saying, “Corydon is piping on the stage.”
Though thy weakness yearn unto Corydon, Political Economy says, “No,
Greater is Mangnall than Corydon, and greater Martinus than Mangnall:
Whoso thirsteth after Wisdom let him drink of the pages of Martinus.”
The Committee.
Happy the man that loves Martinus' feasts!
Now, Bavius, let us hear your anapæsts.
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'Twas but this morning as I lay a-bed
That Phœbus sang me, “Corydon is dead.”
[Sings.
Wake! for the lark the clear heavens is adorning,
Wake Phyllis, and Damon, and Susan, and Ned,
Trip, trip 'neath the stars through the mists of the morning,
Away to the greenwood, for Corydon's dead.
Wake Phyllis, and Damon, and Susan, and Ned,
Trip, trip 'neath the stars through the mists of the morning,
Away to the greenwood, for Corydon's dead.
Wake! for the Muse is in mourning, and Phœbus
Is twittering a dirge to the birds overhead,
Calliope tells us she ne'er heard the bee buzz
So sad in the greenwood, for Corydon's dead.
Is twittering a dirge to the birds overhead,
Calliope tells us she ne'er heard the bee buzz
So sad in the greenwood, for Corydon's dead.
Prototyped duly in Worcestershire china,
Wooing your shepherdess daintily bred,
Colin, sweet shepherd, bring Susan or Lina,
Or both, to the greenwood, for Corydon's dead.
Wooing your shepherdess daintily bred,
Colin, sweet shepherd, bring Susan or Lina,
Or both, to the greenwood, for Corydon's dead.
For Lina is stitching by the cows in the kitchen,
And barefooted Susan she bakes in the shed,
Come Lina, come Susan, be quick, slip your shoes on,
And come to the greenwood, for Corydon's dead.
And barefooted Susan she bakes in the shed,
Come Lina, come Susan, be quick, slip your shoes on,
And come to the greenwood, for Corydon's dead.
What shepherd his nights in the Unicorn passes,
Let him take to the Temperance tea-cups instead,
Leave the jingle of glasses and nimble-heeled lasses,
And come to the greenwood, for Corydon's dead.
Let him take to the Temperance tea-cups instead,
Leave the jingle of glasses and nimble-heeled lasses,
And come to the greenwood, for Corydon's dead.
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Leave the cow to the tillage, leave the dog to the village,
Come Phyllis, and Damon, and Susan, and Ned,
Come master and varlet, in green or in scarlet,
Away to the greenwood, for Corydon's dead.
Come Phyllis, and Damon, and Susan, and Ned,
Come master and varlet, in green or in scarlet,
Away to the greenwood, for Corydon's dead.
The Committee.
O dirge divine! How sweet the music rings!
What anapæstic bard like Bavius sings?
Enter Galatea, Melibœus, Thyrsis, Menalcas, Alphesibœus, Peasants and Linnets.
Galatea.
Pray, strangers, who are you that thus intrude
Your noisy brawling on this sacred wood?
The Linnets.
“Who are you?” quotha; why, stark madmen clear.
Titiotiotix—what want you here?
The Committee.
Arcadian friends, from London town we came,
The Corydon Committee is our name.
For once, most rustic band, there lived a man,—
[The Linnets peck the Committee.
(Confound these fowls,—good madam, if you can,
Call off your thrushes)—who without dispute
Lived in this country-side, and played the flute.
This poet's name was Corydon, and we
Are come to keep his tercentenary.
Which means, Arcadian sirs, that since his birth
Three hundred years have travelled o'er the earth.
This is the gentleman who sang so sweet—
[Pointing to Bavius: the Linnets peck Bavius.
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Good Phœbus! slay these hornets, I entreat.
The Committee.
Who sang so sweet, and when the sun goes down,
A lecture he intends in Stratford town.
Galatea,
half aside.
How came these tailors here?
The Committee.
By special train.
The Linnets.
Titiotix—Then so go back again.
What do you doubt?—come, friends, and test your sticks
On the Committee—Tiotiotix.
[Melibœus and Peasants beat the Committee.
Furius.
Alas! Alas!
Bavius.
Good Phœbus, let me hide
Somewhere in Helicon.
Mævius.
My head! my side!
Fannius.
Save me, Committee, Fannius save! Alas!
Too late I learn that Murray is an ass.
The Committee.
But oh! the pity, Fannius, the pity
We e'er became the Corydon Committee.
Martinus Tupperus.
Avaunt, proud rustic band! The author I
Of the “Proverbial Philosophy.”
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Then the more reason why you should be beat,
For each edition we'll the stroke repeat.
[Pursues Martinus.
Galatea.
Sensation, take your truants back to school,
And fix their bounds within your city rule.
There let them watch some trembling half-starved thing
Mount o'er the poplars on a rotten string;
There let them, tricked in all your arts, engage
The pen, the brush, and the degenerate stage,
And find such masters, as your pupils should,
Ready to hand,—a Braddon and a Wood.
But, for such blades scarce suit our country fairs,
Pray keep your children to Belgravia's squares.
Let dainty Pyrrha, whilst her eyes grow dim,
And the low candle splutters on the rim,
Last sentinel of night, in deepening gloom,
Husband her wick, to see who murdered whom.
Let her the Queens of Bigamy adore,
The Lady Audley, and the “Miss Aurore,”
And triumph with victorious Eleanore.
Forbid your noisy pupils to invade
Our simple dell, and unpropitious shade.
Scarce will they find in this dull round of life
A murderer, or two husbands to one wife.
Then in your stirring scenes live on, nor crave
To play such mummeries o'er a poet's grave.
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Hurrah! the lusty cudgel moves amain.
For Bavius one, Martinus smite again.
The time runs short, the train's at half-past six,
Follow through brake and briar, most noble sticks,
Titiotiotiotiotix.
[Exeunt omnes.
| The Tercentenary of Corydon | |